Imperfect Dreams
by BeatlePhan
Summary: Be careful what you wish for... COMPLETE


Imperfect Dreams

DISCLAIMER: Only the character of Claude belongs to me, and then only partially… the rest belong to the geniuses who created them.

A/N My visual and vocal references for Erik have always been, and will always be, Michael Crawford.

To my Phriend Riene: SURPRISE! Thanks for the help; you owe me some bash...

     The mob had finally departed from Erik's home, leaving behind a trail of destruction. No item was left untouched; what was too big to be ripped or torn apart was overturned and smashed. Now there was just the darkness, lit by only a few fluttering candles struggling to keep the blackness at bay.

     Erik cautiously came out of hiding, making sure his lair was empty before dejectedly surveying the mess. A few stray pieces of his musical compositions lay scattered about on the floor, but he took no notice of them. He walked to his throne and, with a bit of a struggle, put it upright and sat on it, holding his head in his hands, shoulders slumped. "If there is a God," he whispered, "I curse Him for creating me."

     "Oh, my! You shouldn't say things like that!" A voice spoke at his shoulder, startling him. He stood and whirled to meet the intruder, a small meek-looking man dressed in a modest suit.

     "How did you get in here?" Erik demanded, looking around to ascertain whether or not the man was alone.

     "You didn't mean that, did you?" the man ignored his question. "About cursing God, that is."

     "I did," Erik told him stiffly, not particularly threatened but still uneasy in the man's presence. "What is to you?"  
     "My name is Claude," the visitor said. "I am your guardian angel. And you shouldn't say things like that about God. He hears everything, you know."

     "He appears not to have ever heard any of my prayers," Erik said snidely. "And I have no need of a 'guardian angel'. The demons of my past would overwhelm you."

     "Hmmm," Claude pondered, looking upward as if for inspiration. "Do you think God has been ignoring you? We all are created for a purpose, Erik. Even you."

     "I suppose my 'purpose'  was to provide amusement for your God, then. Why else would he curse me with this face?"  
     "How do _you_ think you should have been created?"

     "I should look like a man, not a monster! I should live in the sunlight, not in this eternal darkness. I should have...someone to love me…"

     Again Claude looked upward, then smiled slightly. "If you think you would be happier in such an existence, then by all means you should have it. So be it."  
     There was a blinding flash of light, then Erik suddenly found himself standing on the streets of Paris in broad daylight, with crowds of people jostling around him. He whirled in panic, searching desperately for a dark doorway to duck into, but none was to be found. As he turned to flee, a hand on his arm stopped him. "What is the matter?" Claude asked.

     "How did I get here? I must hide!" Erik gasped.

     Claude gently guided him toward a storefront and said, "Look at your reflection, Erik."

     Erik slowly raised his head, and stiffened in shock at the face staring back at him in the window. The skin was smooth and unblemished, with blue eyes, and a wonderfully thick and wavy shock of auburn hair covering his head. He tentatively raised a hand, touching first the right side of his face, then running his fingers through his hair. "Is that… _me?_" he asked in disbelief.

     "None other," Claude grinned at the expression on his charge's face. "That is, it is the you  that you have wished for. May I present Monsieur Erik de la Talle, preeminent architect, well-known composer, and leading patron of the Opera Populaire."

     "I… I…" Erik stuttered.  
     "You need to sit down," Claude finished the sentence for him, leading him to a table outside a small café. "A strong drink for my friend, if you please," he told the lady who came to wait on them. She nodded and left, returning soon with a glass which she set before Erik. "Drink up," Claude told him. 

     Erik took the glass and drained it in one gulp, gasping a bit as the liquor burned his throat. "How can this be?" he asked.

     "I told you, I'm your guardian angel. You felt that God had wronged you when He made you, so He has re-created you, so to speak. You are now just like every other citizen of this city. Well, perhaps a bit richer than most…"

     Erik was about to reply when a man and woman approached him. "Monsieur de la Talle!" the man exclaimed. "It is indeed an honor to see you again. May I present my wife, Louisa." The woman extended her hand to Erik, who just stared at it until Claude kicked him under the table. Erik reached out and hesitantly took her hand, bending his head to brush her skin with his lips. She smiled at him in a manner he was quite unused to, and he felt the blood rushing to his face. He struggled to concentrate on what the man was saying. 

     "We are very pleased with the designs so far, and are greatly looking forward to the finished product. Will you be coming by our offices on Friday?"  
     "Yes, that is, I suppose I will," Erik answered in confusion, not at all sure what he was agreeing to. 

     "Good!" the man exclaimed. "We will see you then." He turned to leave, and his wife lingered a moment, not quite able to conceal the intensity of her stare.   
     "Good day, Monsieur," she whispered. "I too hope to see you again, and soon." She followed her husband and soon they were lost in the crowd.

     "Well, you certainly made an impression on her!" Claude joked

Erik was staring off into space, and Claude realized that events were happening too quickly for him to take in. "I think you need to go home and rest a bit," he said, standing and pulling Erik to his feet. Erik just nodded absently and started walking. "Where are you going?" Claude asked.

     "Home-the Opera-is just down this road…"  
     Claude shook his head slowly. "Erik, my _dear_ Erik, you do not live under the Opera. Please follow me and I'll show you the way to your house." They started  pushing through the people, Erik fighting the urge to hide, to run away. Presently the crowds thinned a bit, and Erik was just beginning to feel  more comfortable, when the sight ahead of him stopped him in his tracks. "Is something wrong?" Claude asked.

     "That building-just there," Erik pointed with a trembling hand. "That's _my_ design!"

     "It is."  
     "It's… it's… beautiful. How-who…"  
     "That is your home, Erik. And your architectural offices are there as well. It's just one of many buildings in Paris that you are responsible for."  
     "I must see the interior; did they place the columns as I had planned…" Erik strode forward, his concentration solely on the building now. As he reached the door it opened for him, and a servant just inside bowed.

     "Welcome home, Monsieur. May I take your cloak?"

     "In a moment," Erik absently waved him off, looking anxiously around the interior of the foyer as Claude watched in amusement. "Yes, yes, it's just as I envisioned it!" Erik noted happily, running his hand reverently along a wall. "This is unbelievable."

     "Why? Is it not what you would expect if you oversaw the entire project? Which of course you did."

     Erik stopped at a full length mirror, finally getting a good look at his new face. "It's as if all my dreams have come true." Then he frowned slightly, turning back to Claude. "Almost all my dreams. Monsieur Claude, where is Christine?"  
     "Mademoiselle Daae?" Claude looked a bit uncomfortable. "I am your angel, not hers. I really cannot say  where she is."  
     Erik stepped quickly toward him, worry replacing the previous joy. "Something is wrong. You must tell me!"  
     "I am not allowed, Erik. I'm sorry."  
     Erik swirled toward the door, and the servant was hard pressed to open it before him. "If you will not tell me, I shall find out for myself!" His voice carried back into the hallway as he disappeared outside.  
     "It is your choice, of course, my friend." Claude said softly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

     Erik pushed open the door to the Paris Opera, and was immediately met by Messrs. Firmin and Andre, who scurried over. "Monsieur de la Talle!" Andre exclaimed effusively. "What can we do for our favorite patron?"

     Erik answered, "I am looking for a member of your chorus-a young lady named Christine Daae. May I see her?"

     "Daae," Firmin looked puzzled. "I can't quite place the name, but I can't seem to keep up with all chorus members. Perhaps if you asked Madame Giry. She is in rehearsals at this moment, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind answering a few questions. Shall I send for her?"

     "No, no," Erik said. "I know the way; I'll ask her myself" He strode off toward the ornate doors leading into the auditorium, walking quickly toward the stage where the petit rats were all practicing under the watchful gaze of Madame Giry. When they saw him, they quickly stopped and huddled together, giggling and staring. Madame Giry turned to see what the distraction was, and her eyes widened as she recognized him.

     "Monsieur," she inclined her head toward him, then cast a quick glare at the girls, silencing them. 

     "Madame, I am in need of your assistance," Erik had quickly scanned the chorus girls and had not seen Christine among them. "I'm looking for Christine Daae, I believe she is supposed to be a member of your chorus, but I'm afraid I don't see her."

     "Christine Daae… yes, I seem to remember her. She was here for a short while, but was let go. Meg!" she called, and one of the girls shyly approached. "Do you remember Christine Daae? Do you know where she is now?"

     "We kept in touch for a short while. She was working at a _taverne_ on Rue St Denis, I'm not sure which one. That's all I know."

     Erik kept his face expressionless, but inwardly he was seething  with anger. Christine, _his _Christine, working in a _taverne_? That was unthinkable. "Thank you for your help, Madame, Mademoiselle." He bowed slightly and turned to go, leaving through a side entrance and hurrying through the streets. The sun was low in the sky; it would be dark soon. He quickened his pace even more and finally reached the street Meg had mentioned. 

     He approached the first establishment, pushing through the crowd in the doorway and heading toward the bar. He noted the stares directed at him, but chose to ignore them. "A moment please," he said to the burly man serving drinks. The man stared at him, and Erik continued. "I am looking for a young lady…"  
     "Aren't we all!" laughed one of the men seated nearby. 

     Erik glared him into silence, then continued. "I'm told she works at one of the _tavernes_ on this street-her name is Christine Daae. Is she here? Or do you know where she can be found?"

     "Sorry," the man brusquely replied. "No one here by that name." He turned to another customer.

    Erik ran a hand through his hair in frustration, turning to leave, but a hand on his sleeve stopped him. It was the man who had spoken earlier. "I know where she is," he leered. "I'll tell you-for a price."

     Erik's eyes narrowed, but he reached for his purse. "Well?" he asked.

     "She's at The Queen's Head, 3 buildings down. Quite a crowd pleaser too." He held out his hand, and Erik reluctantly dropped some coins in it before angling through the people and exiting the building.

     He paused before the entrance into The Queen's Head, which appeared to be the seediest _taverne_ in the section. He took a few deep breaths, trying to regain control of his emotions, before working his way inside. He finally reached the bar, and once again repeated his question about  Christine. 

     "Yes, she's here, back in her room getting ready for tonight's performance." was the answer.

     "I need to speak with her-it is important."  
     "I don't know-I'm not supposed to let the girls mingle with the customers before the show…" the man's voice trailed off as Erik spilled some coins on the counter. With a furtive look, the man swept them into his hand and stowed them in his pocket before nodding toward a dark hallway to the left. "Down there, second door on the right," he told Erik.

     Erik followed the man's directions, pausing before the indicated room as he attempted to calm himself. He reached up and knocked on the door.   
     "Come in," a voice called, and he closed his eyes-it was _her_ voice; it was _her_. He hesitantly pushed the door open, and stood in amazement at what he saw. Christine sat at a small table in the dirty room, wearing a skimpy dress. She was applying gaudy make- up, and only spared him a glance before returning to that task. "What do you want?" she asked in a lifeless voice.

     "Christine…" he whispered in despair. "What are you doing here?"

     "Monsieur? What do you think I am doing here-I must earn my living." She took another look at him, noting his fine clothes and noble bearing. She continued sarcastically, "We cannot all be wealthy and pampered." She added one last bit of lip coloring, then rose. "If you will excuse me, my shift starts soon." She moved to walk past him.

     He grabbed her arm. "What happened to you? Your career at the Opera? You should be a diva; a prima donna by now, not…"

     "Not what?" she tried to jerk loose, but his grasp was strong and firm. "How do you know about the Opera? I was only there a short while-my voice was not good enough…" He thought he saw tears in her eyes, but she angrily turned her face away from him. "Please release me."

     "I will NOT let you go out there looking like that!" he exclaimed. 

     "Who do you think you are?" She struggled, then cried out when it became apparent he would not turn her loose. Immediately a hefty man barged into the room, prying Erik's hand free and pushing him away from Christine. He raised a fist to strike, but Christine stopped him. "I'm all right," she told him. "Just get him out of here-I'm due onstage now."

     The man grasped Erik by the elbow and forced him from the room, dragging him to a back doorway and flinging him outside. "Please," Erik begged. "I must see her-it's important!"

     "If you really want her, come back after the show. She'll be available then-if you can afford her!" The man grinned and closed the door.

     "NO!" Erik cried, banging on the door, to no avail. He leaned against it, moaning quietly, "Christine…"

     "Well, well-what have we here?" a voice behind him spoke, and he turned to see the man from the other _taverne_ standing in the alley, three other men beside him. "Did you find your little whore?"

     For a split second, Erik almost lost control and leapt at the man, but common sense prevailed and he somehow was able to rein in his temper. "It is no concern of yours," he replied, his voice rigid with self-control

     "Ah, but it is. Since you were successful, I think it only right that you reward me a bit more-that pittance you gave me earlier would barely buy a drink for me, and I have three thirsty friends to think of."

     "I owe you nothing," Erik attempted to walk by them, but the man shoved him against the wall of the building.

     "You are wrong about that, monsieur," he muttered, then they all attacked at once. 

     Erik tried to defend himself, but there were too many of them, and the blows were coming too fast to block. He felt the air rush from his lungs as a fist pounded into his ribs, then a hand slammed his head against the brick wall and Erik dropped like an unstrung puppet. He was only vaguely aware of hands searching him, taking his purse, and the crows of delight when the contents were revealed. Then they took his cloak and jacket, even his shoes, and there was a moment of quiet. "Do we just leave him here? He could identify us-maybe we should kill him…"

     "No, I don't want to be part of a murder," a second voice answered, and a booted foot slammed into his already  sore ribs, eliciting a moan. There was a clatter of footsteps, then Erik was alone in the darkness.

     He wasn't sure how long he lay there before he was able to push himself to his knees. He raised a trembling hand to his head, and it came away slick with blood, which he wiped on his already soiled shirt. He stumbled to his feet and staggered away, not really sure what direction he was heading in. "Claude," he croaked, calling out for help. There was no answer.

     Erik shuffled through the dark alleys, and the occupants, mistaking him for one of their own, left him alone. He continued to call for Claude, but his guardian angel seemed to have abandoned him. Finally his strength gave out and he collapsed in a pile of garbage, making one last plea in a hoarse whisper, "Claude, please…"

     "What _have_ you done to yourself?" a familiar voice asked, and Erik, squinting, was just able to make out Claude's dark shape standing over him. 

     "You must return me," he rasped. "Make things like they were before."

     "Come now, Erik. You're not the first man to be beaten and robbed. You will recover."  
     "I don't care about myself!" his voice was a bit stronger with emotion. "It's Christine-she's…"

     "Yes, I know," Claude told him sadly.

     "What happened to her? She had a great future at the Opera."  
     "You were not there to tutor her," Claude revealed. "Her dancing was only adequate, and as there were plenty of more talented girls waiting to join the chorus, she was released. She took the only job she could get in order to survive."

     Erik wiped away the blood dripping into his eye, trembling as the pain became worse. "You must return me," he repeated dully. 

     Claude pursed his lips in thought, then said, "It will change nothing, you know."  
     "What do you mean?"  
     "If I put things back the way they were, it will all be the same. Christine will still have left you."  
     "I don't _care!_" Erik snarled weakly. "As long as Christine is safe and… happy… that is all that matters."

"Very well-so be it." There was a flash of light, and Erik flung up his arm to cover his eyes. Then there was darkness, and he recognized the feel of the all-too-familiar damp air of his subterranean home; the musty smell of the nearby lake. He looked around and noticed a candle still flickering weakly on the ground, and picked it up, walking toward the shore of the lake. He hesitated a moment, then raised the candle and leaned over the water, staring at his reflection.

     The familiar monstrous visage looked back at him, and his shoulders drooped hopelessly. He crawled over to a boulder and leaned against it, crying, "Christine…"  
     "I'm here…" he seemed to hear her voice echoing around him and he shook his head, dropping the candle and finally giving in to the overwhelming despair. He buried his deformed face in his hands, sobbing until he had no more tears.

      "Christine," he finally whispered. "I did it…_ all_… for you."

     "I know you did."

     It took a few moments for the words to sink in, then Erik slowly looked up. She was standing over him, a lantern in her hand, looking at him with concern. He closed his eyes, certain she was a hallucination, then cautiously looked again. She was still there. "Please," he pleaded. "Don't torment me…"

    "Oh, Angel," she sat the lantern down and knelt beside him, gently touching his arm, and he gasped in surprise. "It's really me," she assured him.

     "No," he said in denial. "You can't be real."

     "But I am," she told him, and took him into her arms, cradling him gently. He remained still and she, sensing his continuing disbelief, lowered her face to his and kissed him.

     This was not like their first kiss-a kiss born of desperation and the sudden realization of her feelings for him. This kiss was soft and lingering; her lips gently enveloping his. She felt the rigidness of his posture leaving him, and he leaned hesitantly against her, then his hand was on her neck, slowly pressing her closer to him. Finally they separated and he stared at her for a long moment,  breaking the silence by asking, "You have really come back to me?"  
     "Yes."

     "To… stay?" 

     She smiled sadly at the desperate hope in his voice and firmly answered, "To stay-forever."

     He briefly closed his eyes, then she stood, taking his hand and pulling him up with her. "I suppose I have been wrong," he said softly, and he thought he heard Claude's voice chuckling faintly somewhere nearby.

     "Wrong about what?" Christine looked at him, puzzled, as they headed back toward his lair.

    "Perhaps… there _is _a God… after all."

A/N With appropriate thanks to Frank Capra and Jimmy Stewart...


End file.
